


Dare

by ObsidianJade



Category: Bon Jovi
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianJade/pseuds/ObsidianJade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jon had a healthy respect for the size of his best friend's metaphorical balls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dare

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this picture](http://i826.photobucket.com/albums/zz188/stromssa/Fave%20Bon%20Jovi%20pics/jrwtf.jpg) and a discussion over on the Bon Jovi RPS boards that consists of a comment that Jon looks in the middle of going 'oh fuuu-', me pointing out that we can't see Richie's hand, and my Muse returning from her decidedly unapproved sabbatical with an unexpected amount of enthusiasm.
> 
> Disclaimer: Jon Bon Jovi and Richie Sambora are both property of themselves. This is purely a work of imagination and no harm is intended or implied.

__________________________________________________________________________

He wouldn’t dare.

 _Who are you trying to kid, Bongiovi?_ Jon thought savagely to himself, swiping behind his back in an attempt to dislodge the wandering hand. _It’s Sambora. Of course he fucking dares._

The photographer was across the room, fiddling with something technical-looking, and Richie was crowded up behind Jon, close enough that the scent of leather and cologne and sweat was overwhelming the chemical stink of the hairspray in Jon’s own hair.

Ever since that first time, when Richie had walked up to him with the greeting, “I’m gonna be your lead guitarist,” he’d had a healthy respect for the size of his friend’s metaphorical balls.

Not, mind you, that his literal balls were much of anything to be laughed at, either.

The hand slid forward again.

“Sambora,” Jon hissed through gritted teeth, “either get your fucking hand out from between my legs, or you’re going to be working the frets with your _toes_.”

A soundless breath of laughter burst over his cheek, ruffling stray strands of hair across his face, sticky-stiff with spray. The rough prickle of Richie’s stupid mustache against his skin came a second later as his best friend and personal demon nuzzled up against him, an insane, exhibitionist, sex-crazed puppy of a man.

“You wouldn’t,” Richie whispered back, close enough that Jon could feel his lips and mustache brushing over his skin. “You like my hands too much.”

And unlike Jon’s initial thought, Richie was actually right. Jon loved Richie’s hands; those long, callused fingers were as talented over skin as they were over strings, and Richie could play any lover he chose with just as much expertise as his favorite Kramer.

Jon’s hand slapped against the wall, shoulder twisting awkwardly as he fought to get a grip on the rough wood, trying to keep himself standing as Richie’s fingers moved again. Even through a layer of denim, it was impossible not to react to that wicked, knowing touch.

The photographer glanced back to them, but Jon was standing at enough of an angle, and Richie close enough against his back, that there wasn’t anything to see from across the room.

Jon felt the faint prickle of sweat on the back of his neck, dampening the scarf he wore, and sucked in a deep breath when the photographer turned away again. “You’re gonna get us fucking caught, Rich!”

“Have a little faith, man,” Richie whispered, smug smile evident in the tone of his voice, and set his fingers to making Jon gasp as the photographer returned, camera at the ready.


End file.
